


The Life That Leaves Your Bones

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Accident, Alcoholism, Cluster Seizure, Comfort, Death, Epilepsy, Family Bereavement, Family Death, Fit, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, JME, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Loss, M/M, Mycroft is deliberately cruel, Myoclonics, Myoclonus, RTA, Seizure, Seizures, T/C, bereavement, epileptic, fitting, h/c, myoclonic jerks, road traffic accident, tonic clonic, tonic-clonic seizure, trigger warning, tw: alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-24 19:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7520353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even as the sun shone through the high window, illuminating the country kitchen just enough through the slatted blinds that prevented there being ‘too much’ sun, Violet was poised for something unimaginably bad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "Please Don't Go" by Stephanie Rainey.

Even as the sun shone through the high window, illuminating the country kitchen just enough through the slatted blinds that prevented there being ‘too much’ sun, Violet was poised for something unimaginably bad. When the words came, though, she wasn’t entirely sure if she was hearing the truth or something her mind was conjuring up. She watched her eldest son as he spoke, and forced herself to the realisation that this was real - all of it. She drew her eyes down from Mycroft and stared into the mid-distance, listening but not focused, feeling a shiver engulf her spine and send shocks to her fingertips. He’d just telephoned her ten minutes before. 

Wake Sherlock, he’d said. Don’t ask me why, I cannot have that conversation over a mobile phone. Wake Sherlock! I’ll be with you and Dad soon. 

He hadn’t given her a moment to stop and think that Sherlock had only had one or two hours of sleep and waking him wouldn’t be helpful. He hadn’t given her time to push him into telling her why. Now she knew. Now she understood, and she felt sick. 

Siger could only stare at his son, the idea of a quiet breakfast with his wife and youngest long abandoned for the rushed rousing of Sherlock and forcing him to take his medication whilst being singularly the most tired person he’d ever met. He’d managed to transition to supposing Mycroft was about to announce an engagement and wanted to ensure Sherlock was awake enough to share in it, though the twenty-three-year-old was being as insufferable as he could be - to being dumbstruck, listening to Mycroft talking but not able to pick out any words past there was an accident - it’s Abigail’s car. 

The alarming feeling of loss was one Sherlock remembered and it kickstarted in his body like muscle memory as soon as he heard the words come forth from Mycroft’s stumbling lips. Nobody had been expecting it, and the pain was immediate. It twisted and pulled like a fist thrust agonisingly through his gut. His brow trembled as he bit his bottom lip to prevent it from betraying a stoic, outward appearance. He felt sick and hot, his body prickly as every hair stood erect with goosebumps that erupted across his skin. 

“The Inspector said the car was completely unrecognisable, but for the rear number plate, and that despite the fire that started due to the impact on the engine meant that everyone inside was….He said that the force was so great, their deaths would have been immediate.” Mycroft set the gloves he’d been slowly removing as he spoke onto the breakfast table and sat down slowly into the chair across from his brother. 

Violet kept both hands cupped around her coffee mug and closed her eyes as she measured her breaths. The silence around here only disturbed from total nothingness by the ticking of the pendulum clock that filled the large space of wall that the table backed onto. She blinked slowly, a tear forced from each duct and down the inside of her cheeks, running down the ridges of her nose. “Oh, Mike…” she released the mug with her right hand and cupped it over her mouth as her crying became forceful. “Everyone?” Her brow furrowed as she whispered the word. 

Level and strong, Mycroft nodded his head three times slowly. “They don’t know...They’ll be using dental records.” He blinked over the realisation of his words; he was talking about his family. He was talking about his father’s sister and two of her children. “He told me that there are cameras on that stretch of the road and they are in the process of obtaining the tapes to trace the pattern of travel and the...impact.” 

Violet closed her eyes, one hundred and one different versions of what could be found on that tape quickly playing through her mind. She brought her hand down from her face and hooked it back around her mug, just for something to focus on. “They’re looking to see if she deliberately drove into the oncoming side?” 

Mycroft gave a quick nod of his head. “I think so.” He scanned his mother’s face, watched her rein in her tears and compose her expression. Emotional and broken suddenly became sad and yet in control. “I’m sorry, Dad…” He said, moving his eyes slightly to his mother’s left to watch his unmoving father. 

“The children are...?” Siger said at length, and blinked finally. 

Mycroft nodded his head, “There were multiple...people.” He said. “Like I said, we won’t know who until the records come back.” He sighed evenly as his father gave a single nod and looked to his wife, his eyes filling with tears when he saw the hurt in hers. Mycroft savoured a brief moment of breathing space to resettle himself, shaken to see his father cry. “Are you okay, Sherlock?” He asked as he turned toward his brother, sitting opposite him. 

Sherlock was staring down at his hands, his bitten-down fingernails flicking back and forth against one another. He raised his head at Mycroft’s question and was proud of his restraint. “Do they really think she would have?” He asked, “Driven into oncoming traffic? She was suffering from depression, Mycroft. She’d lost her mother and her drinking got worse, all in the space of a couple of years…” 

“They don’t know anything, Sherlock.” Mycroft placated him quickly, “They aren’t suggesting anything. They cannot even be sure it’s Abigail until the analysts come back.” 

“It’s her car.” Sherlock said plainly. “Of course it’s Abigail...shit…” He sat back as his arm jerked twice violently, sending his tumbler of milk across the table, spilling the contents across the sanded tabletop and trickling down over his pyjama trousers.

“Calm yourself down.” Mycroft said sternly, reaching over the table to upend the tipped glass. He got up to his feet and retrieved the dishtowel from beside the sink. He held it out to Sherlock to mop up the mess, but pulled back the proffered hand when he saw him battling through a cluster of jerks that tugged his right shoulder down in a painful tug. 

“You just telephoned Mum and Dad to wake me up, because you had news. I thought you were going to be honest for once in your...fuck... You come in here with...this...and you want me, ah…” He gritted his teeth as his entire right side seem to fold in on itself in three, inward thrusts. 

“Mycroft he’s just woken up - they’ll be bad for a while and this won’t help. Please, get in touch with the Inspector, see if he knows any more.” Violet said as she released her mug, at last, and stood. She took the dishtowel from Mycroft and moved behind Sherlock’s chair, touching her hand against his left shoulder as she reached behind him to mop up the spilt milk on his right hand side. 

“I didn’t get a direct contact number for him, but he told me he was based in the New Scotland Yard offices.” Mycroft said, watching his mother dab the table dry, and gently rub her free hand up and down on Sherlock’s left bicep. For a woman who was emotionally outgoing in many ways, she was doing wonders at controlling the tears he had seen when first he spoke. He admired her stiff upper lip. “Lestrade,” He continued. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

“I want to come if you’re going there.” Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft around his mother. “You won’t ask the right questions.” 

“I’m sure that they’ll take you seriously with a milk moustache, tears in your eyes and emotionally exacerbated seizures.” Mycroft barked at him. “This isn’t a game, Sherlock.” 

Violet through the damp towel onto the table. “Today? You two will sit here and do this, today? Your aunt….and - and you both want to sit here, bickering like ten year olds? I am sick of listening to you boys fight. It is constant and it is ridiculous. It has to stop! I won’t have it, not for one minute.” 

Mycroft broke off his stare at Sherlock and looked up at his mother. “Sorry.” He muttered, apparently genuinely apologetic. 

“I want to know what happened, I want to know what they’re going to do.” Sherlock persisted. 

“William!” Violet called out loudly and both boys jerked back at the bark to her voice and the use of Sherlock’s given name. Never in the history of his life, but for formal identification and registrations, had ‘William’ ever been addressed to Sherlock by Violet and it made him feel nervous, driving the grief-fuelled anxiety back into play in his stomach. 

“Violet.” Siger got to his feet shakily, his hands vibrating with fear and grief as he held them out to his wife and placed them on her shoulders. “Mike is right; the fear we can’t control but perhaps we should wait until the police are finished before we…” 

“Dad…” Mycroft began as his face pulled his hands away from their mother and covered his face, beginning to cry in great sobs that shook his insides. 

“Upstairs.” Violet demanded of her sons. “Go!” 

 

 

Nobody is ever prepared for the tears that fall from the eyes of their parents, but as Mycroft perched on the edge of Sherlock’s unmade bed, watching his brother sit up on his stack of pillows and try to hide how aggravated his myoclonic jerks were becoming, he considered that it was more the sound of grief in the heartrending sobs that were hardest to swallow. He felt, in as much of a capacity as he allowed himself to, immense sorrow for the news he had delivered and the feeling of utter guilt it left when he saw the look in his father’s eyes. 

“Take the diazepam, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, pointedly. He hadn’t been ‘banished to his room’ since he was eight years old, and had never been sent to Sherlock’s. He felt out of place to be in the childhood dwellings now that he was thirty years old and a man with his own life. 

Sherlock kicked his foot down the bed, the long limb forced into colliding with Mycroft’s ample thigh. “Get off my bed, Mycroft.” 

“You’re lucky, you know that?” Mycroft said, standing despite not being usually so easy to back down to Sherlock’s demands. “You have a box of special little pills there that’ll numb the rest of this horrific day for you and yet you sit there savouring the spiralling pain it brings you.” 

Sherlock flexed his finally-relaxed right side and glared up at his brother. “Savouring?” 

“There’s no denying it is her; she is dead, Sherlock, and her cremated remains are doing nothing but waiting for toe-tags. It was deliberate, such was Abigail’s wont, and ahead of us now lies the task of supporting our father through the loss of his sister. That cannot be achieved with you on another of your social clock-outs at the hospital. Take the goddamned tablets and adhere to the protocol of being a son.” Mycroft snapped at him. 

Part of Mycroft had half expected Sherlock’s response to the ordering, while another part of him had hoped that Sherlock’s misfiring brain might somehow override itself and remain on a semi-hiatus of seizing until the storm began to look weatherable. Alas, he was at Sherlock’s side as he gave a deep groan and slipped without further drama into unconsciousness. Mycroft moved what pillows he could under Sherlock’s body and kept him from jerking his forehead into the locker beside the head of his bed as his body stiffened and began to convulse. By all accounts, the seizure was small, but given his emotional state and prior lack of sleep, Mycroft figured that the day would be filled with heavy eyes watching Sherlock despite the want to attend to one’s own grief. 

He kept his warm hand on Sherlock’s thigh as his body jerked in rhythmic snaps, and despite himself muttered the same words he had since Sherlock was eleven. “Alright, Sherlock. It’s alright. It’s okay - you’re doing fine.” 

Two minutes and nine seconds later, Sherlock’s breathing began to relax from saliva-choked to deep gusts through his nose, and his limbs slowly relaxed as he lay still. Mycroft’s hand remained on his thigh as he waited for Sherlock to show signs of consciousness. He repeated his name, and asked for his sign to show he was okay. “Alright Sherlock, it’s okay. Show me you’re okay.” He said quietly. It took four attempts and another stretched out two minutes, but Sherlock left hand came up uncoordinatedly and landed in a finger-poke at the tip of his nose. Where it had originated from, Mycroft couldn’t really recall, but it was tried and tested and seemed to be the easiest way for Sherlock to show he was back to the land of the conscious when he wasn’t quite ready to talk yet. 

Mycroft stood and watched Sherlock slowly come back to himself until he lay with his eyes open but clearly lethargic, and hugged into one of his pillows deliberately. And Mycroft’s stoicism returned in much the same manner. 

“Now that that is out of the way, when you’re ready you should get washed and dressed. We’ll be downstairs.” Sherlock’s eyes followed his brother’s legs as Mycroft walked from the room before he closed his eyes for a moment and frowned into his headache. He could cry if he wanted, but he wouldn’t. But that singular feeling of grief washed over him and he wished that Victor was here.


	2. Chapter 2

When he shook his hand, Sherlock considered that Greg Lestrade didn’t look at all how he had expected him to. He was easy to read, though. A rocky marriage, a little too reliant on whiskey to fall asleep and a smoking habit that Sherlock considered he might attempt to match him at. He had come to find that focusing on the cigarettes he had taken up smoking did something to his head - with each inhale, his brain quietened. 

Lestrade released Sherlock’s hand and pushed back his jacket to rest both hands on his hips. “I know you’ve been given some pretty horrendous news, and I can’t begin to explain how sorry I am. The license plate was traced immediately to Abigail and so far there has been confirmation on one of the remains in the car. A male,” He began to walk toward a small office, and the Holmes’ followed. “By name of Drew Forsyth.” 

“Her current husband.” Siger said in a more steady voice than his sons had accepted. They noted his use of the word ‘current’. Like Amanda, Abigail had struggled to keep a relationship going. Drew was her fourth husband since she was twenty-two and Siger had detested him the most. 

“Nothing further has been confirmed, but I’m sure you’re aware that with one positive identification linking your family, bracing yourselves for further blows is wise.” Lestrade spoke with a soft voice of mangled accents, and sounded genuinely sympathetic toward them. _Sentiment_. 

“When will you know about the others in the car?” Violet asked. She had linked her arm into Sherlock’s elbow and was holding him close to her while he stood scanning the room with his sharp, flicking eyes. 

“The examiner is working as hard as he can to provide you with the results promptly. The last thing we want is to see you have to wait for word like this.” Lestrade nodded at her honestly and his brows crinkled in the middle, knitted together tightly, with a look of true sadness. _Honest empathy_. “Are there any other questions you’d like me to try to answer?” 

“Can he tell from his dental records if my aunt was drunk?” Sherlock asked. 

Lestrade licked his eyes over Sherlock and shrugged his shoulders honestly, “I wouldn’t have thought dentine held alcohol residue. But that would not have been the cause for the accident if it were the case - the remains identified as Drew’s were in the driver’s seat.” 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned in a low voice. 

Sherlock glanced at his side to his brother and then wriggled his arm free of his mother’s hold. He pushed his hand into his trouser pocket as he felt the vibration of his mobile phone, drawing it out he slipped out of the office into the large working area that surrounded it, filled with people and computers and ringing phones that pierced his skull, and answered the phone. He held the phone to his ear, and plugged the other with his index finger. 

“Sherlock? I got your text.” 

_Victor._ “Thank you for calling me back.” Sherlock said quietly. 

“Do you know what happened yet?” Victor asked and Sherlock could hear the sounds of a television in the background slowly decrease. Victor was in the barracks. 

“Her husband was driving; that’s all. They’ve confirmed he was in the car, it won’t be long until they confirm she was there too, along with his kids.” 

“I’m so - I’m so sorry, Sherlock.” Victor’s voice was low and emotional and Sherlock didn’t like it. 

“Why? You didn’t kill them.” He said, slowly. “I wish you were here.” He added soft voice. 

“I’m sorry that I’m not.” Victor said honestly. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. Is your family okay?” 

“It’s strange to see my father as emotional as he is.” Sherlock admitted. “Mycroft is as...well, as Mycroft as ever.” 

“I’m sorry.” Victor said again and Sherlock wondered why people apologised for things they didn’t do. “I could try to get a pass, for bereavement, if you want me to come and support you? I know emotional stress…” 

“No, it’s okay.” Sherlock said firmly. _Please, please, please come here._

Victor sighed into the phone. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself?” 

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock said with little mirth. 

“I mean it. Take the meds, keep away from cocaine.” Victor instructed firmly. “And call me if it gets too much.” 

“It is too much.” The words escaped Sherlock’s mouth before he realised his brain had processed them. “I wish you were here, but you can’t be and I need to stop wanting the impossible. You told me once I’d gotten into your head, changed what you wanted. You’ve done the same to me.” The hand that had been covering his ear moved higher and he massaged his temple. His head ached; felt spacey and painful, like the remains of a migraine. Seizure-head he’d called it in the past, but he wasn’t sure it was entirely down to that.

“Sherlock, let me come and support you. That’s what - that’s what _boyfriends_ do.” Victor struggled. 

Sherlock turned as he heard Mycroft speaking behind him and watched Mycroft and his father shake Lestrade by the hand. “I need to go; I can call you later?” 

“Of course you can.” Victor said, almost in disbelief that Sherlock felt he had to ask for permission. “Please, promise to look after yourself. And keep me updated on everything.” 

“I will.” Sherlock said flatly and, without a goodbye, hung up the call and pushed his phone back into his pocket. He walked toward his family, feeling entirely too visible in the room full of people, and stood just behind his parents. 

“...I will make sure I get in touch when the rest of the findings come in.” Lestrade ended his conversation, and shook Mycroft’s hand again. 

Mycroft led his family out of the offices and back to his car. The returning journey home was a silent one and Sherlock sat curled in on himself on the back seat beside his mother. She cried on and off, dabbing her eyes with a tissue that had become well worn since she’d retrieved it from her bag in Lestrade’s office. He knew that when the facts came and reality began, there would be more tissues that went the same way. 

Nobody got out of the car when Mycroft removed the key from the engine in the vast driveway of their childhood home. Nobody said a word, either. Even breathing came silently despite some of them having taken to sighing over regular breaths. Mycroft moved first - he unfastened his seatbelt and opened the door, and stepped out onto the gravelled drive. He pushed the door closed silently and stood beneath the warm sun for a moment in perfect stillness. After a moment, his father did the same. 

“Let’s go inside.” Siger said, bending at the waist to look into the rear of the car through the open passenger door. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.” 

Tea fixed nothing, Sherlock knew, but the social idea was a welcomed one and he and his mother stepped out of the car on either side at the same time. The four walked into the house together but Sherlock took a seat at the breakfast table in the kitchen while everybody else disappeared, first, into the lounge. They didn’t seem to realise his absence, though, until Siger came into the kitchen to make tea and saw his son’s form. 

“Son?” 

Sherlock looked up at him and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t think we would ever have to face something like this again after Granny.” His hands were battling against one another where his arms rested on the table. 

For a while, Siger abandoned the idea of tea and pulled out the chair opposite his son to join him. “It’s a sad fact of life that we must face death, Sherlock.” He said, his voice heaving a little as he sat. “Some people, though, are unfortunate in that the deaths they face are tragic ones.” 

“It’s not fair,” Sherlock frowned, his face animated. “What’s the justification of so many lives lost in one go? It isn’t logical.” 

“Death is not logical, Sherlock, it is just a fact.” Siger said quietly.

“But facts are logical!” Sherlock insisted. 

Siger reached out and placed his left hand over both of Sherlock’s as his fingers flicked against each other nervously. “You can’t always solve the problem, Sherlock. No matter how smart you and Mycroft might be; intelligence doesn’t always meet the standard you think it should. Death happens because it happens - and that is the fact we must face. None of us is naive, and we know what we are about to be told. Perhaps now, rather than focusing on what you cannot change or work your mind through, we must try to focus on what we can. Abigail and Drew, and his children, deserve to be given a burial and to have every single one of us there as we were when Granny passed away.” 

Sherlock drew his hands from beneath his father’s warm palm and sighed through his nose as he sat back in the chair. Their eyes met for a moment - matching eyes that, despite Sherlock’s attempts, always told the truth. 

“I know you’re frightened, son, and angry and upset - that’s what grief does to people. But now we have a funeral to plan and a lifetime ahead of us to remember the people we have lost. Dwelling on the whys of their demise will not keep you warm at night.” Siger braced his hands on the table. “Why don't you go into the lounge and sit with Mum?”

Sherlock obeyed his dad, a muscle memory of years ago. He got to his feet, his chair noisy on the quarry tiled floor as his legs nudged it back, and moved on silent feet into the lounge. It was an odd atmosphere that existed within the entire house and Sherlock felt it within himself; it exacerbated his headache, made him feel like his stomach was churning, and brought an odd fatigue over him. He placed himself on the right hand corner of the sofa and drew up his legs, wrapping his arms around his shins. Beside him, Violet dried her eyes again and let go of Mycroft’s hand that she’d been holding across the void between the couch and the armchair. 

“You’ll stay the night, won’t you, Mike?” She said, bundling her tissue underneath the strap of her watch. Sherlock glanced across at them. 

Mycroft pulled a feigned face of thought, “I can’t - not with work.” 

“It’s sunday tomorrow.” She persisted. “If the Inspector calls you, I want us all together for your father. Your room is still the same, the bed is there, Mikey; please stay.” 

Relenting, Mycroft nodded his head. “I will.” 

Sherlock rested his head back on the sofa and stared up at the ceiling beams. He’d always liked the deliberately exposed beams; they gave the house a more rural look, belying that they weren’t actually too far from townships. 

“Are you alright, my darling?” Violet reached out her hand and placed it on Sherlock’s left knee. 

He snapped his head back up and nodded, “I’m fine.” He said, despite the headache worsening. 

Mycroft got to his feet. “You should watch him; he had a fit before we left.” He said, straightening his jumper. “I’ll help Dad with the tea tray.” He added, taking his leave. Sherlock’s eyes burned into his back as he walked away. 

“Oh, did you, my darling, why didn’t you say?” Violet cooed over him, her mind focusing on her boy. 

Sherlock looked at her, “I’m fine,” he repeated. He straightened up in corner of the sofa and pushed his legs down to sit properly. “Do you think that Inspector Lestrade will have all the information back today?” 

“I hope so,” Violet nodded her head sadly. “Are you sure you’re alright, my darling, you look tired.” 

“I am tired.” Sherlock said, moving awkwardly so he could take his phone from his pocket. “I’m going upstairs, I feel...funny.” He got to his feet and left the lounge, dialling Victor’s number as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom. 

“Sherlock - you got more news?” Victor’s initial response sounded fearful.

“No, nothing.” Sherlock said, pushing his bedroom door closed. “Can you come?” He asked, “I know it’s short notice, but if you can come I want you to.” 

Sherlock sighed in relief when Victor quickly confirmed, “Of course I can. I know you said no before, but I spoke to my captain and I’ve got the pass ready if I need to go. I’m a few hours away by train, but I can be with you before six pm, I’m sure of it.” 

Sherlock flopped down onto his bed, lying across it at an odd angle. “Thank you. We’ll pick you up, I’ll get Mycroft to drive.” 

“I actually get to meet the famous Mycroft.” Victor laughed a little. 

Sherlock curled his top lip, “Don’t sound too excited. He’s an idiot.”


	3. Chapter 3

Siger put down his cup out of sheer fear he would spill the contents when Mycroft’s phone began to ring. He watched his son intently as he answered the call and held the device to his right ear. “Yes?” 

“Mycroft? It’s DI Lestrade. If you like, we don’t have to do this over the phone…” 

“No, I’d prefer it. I assume you have the final report?” Mycroft said, looking first at his mother, then to his father. 

“I do. Positive identifications for Abigail Holmes, Drew Forsyth, Rebecca Forsyth-Hunter and James Forsyth-Hunter.” There was a pause before he inhaled deeply and said, “I’m sorry.” 

“Thank you, Inspector.” Mycroft said bluntly. He didn’t allow for any further conversation if Lestrade had intended it as he cut the call and put his phone down onto the coffee table. Siger and Violet’s eyes bore into him and he took a steady breath. “It’s them.” 

Siger nodded his head, but his face was quick to crumble from it’s soft expression into one of agonising grief. Violet’s sobs were hard to stifle, and she cried into her hands as she cupped her face. Mycroft stood awkwardly, towering over his parents. For once it occurred to him that no matter the lifestyle he lived away from them, they were unified in this singular feeling of loss in this moment and he wondered if he should have realised that there could be other, ‘singular’ feelings that bonded them in the past. 

“I’ll tell Sherlock.” More for a reason to escape the constriction of sadness, Mycroft left the lounge and made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He knocked the door, such as it was polite to do so, and turned the handle before he received an invitation inside. He found Sherlock curled on his side, cuddled against a pillow, sleeping almost perfectly still. The fingers of right hand, wrapped beneath the pillow and hanging limply over the side of the bed, twitched inwards in clusters of five on three occasions whilst he hovered at the door. He stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him. 

He bent at the waist and leant in close to Sherlock’s face, whispering his name. “Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stirred at the sudden break of the silence of his bedroom and turned onto his back as he jumped, blinking up at Mycroft above him, trying to bring his tired eyes back into focus. 

“Don’t sit up, you’ll probably benefit from remaining on your back for this one.” Mycroft said as Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. 

“That Inspector called then?” Sherlock said with a croaky voice. “It’s her?” Mycroft nodded his head, watching Sherlock amble himself into a sitting position on the edge of his childhood bed. Mycroft had thought a lot recently about Sherlock being back at his parents’ home and wondered when the man-child would grow up and access a flat or house of his own. Or get a job. 

“Understandably, Dad is upset.” Mycroft said, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. 

“His sister’s dead, of course he’s upset.” Sherlock glared at him. 

“Are you?” Mycroft asked and Sherlock frowned in his general direction, still waking up. “Sad, Sherlock. Are you sad?” 

“She was my aunt, of course it’s upsetting, but what will my grief do in changing things?” Sherlock snapped, getting to his feet. They matched one another in height, almost, and stood staring at each other in a battle of wills. 

Mycroft quirked his eyebrows. “I asked if you were sad, I didn’t ask if the situation was upsetting.” 

“Shut up.” Sherlock blew into his face and turned, rooting around in his dresser for anything to occupy him other than Mycroft’s face. “I need you to drive me to the train station about six.” He said, rifling through his socks. 

Mycroft drew his hands from his pockets. “Why? Off for a fix, are you?” 

“No, I’m meeting somebody. They’re going to stay here for a couple of days.” Sherlock turned to look at him a moment, then focused back on the uninteresting draw. Mycroft reached down and pushed the door closed and Sherlock barely got his hands out before his fingers were trapped. 

“Who?” Mycroft demanded. 

“A friend.” 

“A _boyfriend_?” 

“In fact, yes.” Sherlock pushed a false, marshmallow smile to his face. “We've had sex and everything.” 

Mycroft glared at him. “I won’t take you.” 

“I’ll make you.” Sherlock grimaced, then looked over Mycroft’s shoulder to avoid eye contact.

Mycroft gave a false laugh. “I’d like to see you try.” He stared at his brother but received no comeback. He gave Sherlock’s chest a gentle shove. “Sit down.” He insisted. As Sherlock stumbled back a little, his legs bent at the knees when they met the mattress on his bed and he sat with a bump. No sooner had his bottom met the bed did his right elbow twist in, digging into his side as his muscles contracted. 

When the jerking limb eased, Sherlock frowned up at him. “Why’d you do that - how’d…” 

“You had an absence first.” Mycroft said, his voice suddenly completely different to how it had been when he entered the room. Without an invite, he sat on the bed beside his brother. “Take it easy,” He said, almost quite gently. “How long have you known this friend?” 

“Since I started at the uni.” Sherlock said, flexing his right hand. 

“Victor?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head. Sherlock snapped his neck round to look at him. “I didn’t know, I deduced.” He said. “Yes, I’ll take you to collect him at the train station. He can sleep in my room. I’ll take the sofa.” 

“No…” 

“Yes.” Mycroft said firmly. “The last thing you need to do is put your potential suitor off by throwing fits all night.” 

“Why be nice and then give it conditions?” Sherlock muttered, rolling his right shoulder as it twitched. 

Mycroft should have said “because you're my brother and I worry," or "because you're not ‘just like everyone else’" or maybe "because you're grieving…” Instead, he pushed a malicious smile to his lips and said, “As ever, brother mine, I live to annoy you.” 

“Are you sad?” Sherlock asked, a little out of the blue when Mycroft stood up to leave. 

Mycroft looked at him, hating how innocent he looked when he peered up through those large eyes of his. “Yes.” He said simply, and turned and left the room. 

 

 

Mycroft drove Sherlock to the train station shortly before six pm. They had left their parents sitting together in the lounge - they had wanted to be alone, anyway, as they began making phone calls to the outstretched family to tell them what had happened. Violet had actively encouraged Sherlock’s keen interest in having Victor stay, to Mycroft's surprise, stating it would settle him. Mycroft pulled the Chevy to a stop in the short-stay car park and went with Sherlock into the station to await Victor’s arrival. To Sherlock's quietly sentimental surprise, Mycroft took up a game of over-exaggeration deductions of the people who surrounded them in the large station foyer. 

“Married but having an affair.” He stated as a woman passed them wearing a tight, pinstriped business suit and tugging a roller case behind her. “Mother of...three, third was a mistake.” He added about her. 

“So was the second.” Sherlock smirked. 

“Aren't they always?” Mycroft merely glanced in Sherlock's direction but found his joke internally amusing. 

“He's embezzling.” Sherlock said, “About to sign a deal on a new venture using said money and he's scared he'll be discovered.” 

“Had been,” Mycroft said in a hum. “That's a packed case, not an overnight bag. He's fleeing.” Sherlock smiled, amused at the expression of certainty on Mycroft's face. “He's clearly a run-away, couldn't live up to his father’s hopes for his future,” Mycroft pointed out, spotting another victim. “Comes from money, mind you; he holds himself well so army maybe.” 

“Royal Engineers.” Sherlock said.

“How can you deduce that?” Mycroft waved him off. “I know you're grief stricken, but that is a little ridiculous even for you.”

Sherlock looked at him and shrugged. “That's Victor.” 

Mycroft looked back at the young man, who by now had spotted Sherlock and was approaching with a smile, and considered that he wasn't exactly who he had pictured in his mind when he had imagined Victor. Similar to Sherlock in his slim, lanky build, he was thin about the face too and had an altogether charming manner about him as he stopped beside them. 

“Mycroft, this is Victor Trevor. Victor, this is my brother, Mycroft.” Sherlock made an embarrassed introduction. 

The men shook hands. “Nice to put a face to the name.” Victor remarked. 

“Quite.” Mycroft smiled oddly at him, reading his every inch in a single handshake.


	4. Chapter 4

To Mycroft, Victor was an oddity. He smiled at Sherlock in the same way their mother did, and jibed at him in a similar way to him, but there was a funny kind of connection between them that Mycroft saw bringing Sherlock's personality round to a different station. He was less edgy and much less needlessly argumentative, he seemed less lethargic, and smoked a lot more. From the outset, Mycroft hated him. Victor was quick, on arriving at the house, offer his sincere condolences to Violet and Siger, shaking their hands thoughtfully. Violet loved him, Siger found him gentlemanly. If either of them had known at the time that he was more than just Sherlock's friend, Mycroft feared they might have looked upon him differently. Yes - Mycroft definitely hated him. 

Mycroft ensured that the young man was aware of his sleeping quarters before leaving him and Sherlock alone and joining his parents. There were arrangements to be made and Mycroft assumed that Sherlock having a babysitter meant somebody was there should be fit again, and he was freed up to a degree to ensure he could support his father through going through the channels of informing family and making the arrangements for the funerals that would follow. 

“What’re you laughing at?” Sherlock asked, perched at the foot of his bed as Victor peered around Sherlock’s baby bedroom, picking up trinkets and books, fingering the photograph frames, smiling at the memories Sherlock’s room was filled with of a man he would never know in that capacity. 

Victor looked around at him. “Your hair wasn’t as curly when you were small.” He commented, pointing at a photograph of Sherlock in a rugby jersey inserted into a photograph frame beside a picture of Sherlock and Mycroft on some Christmas morning or another. “I like it better now.” Sherlock’s right hand pushed up into his mop and tugged a few of the spirals down into his eyes before he let them go again. 

“Mycroft used to be thinner, too.” Sherlock said, absently, and flopped back onto the bed. He felt small, not at all close to his twenty-three years. 

Victor abandoned his snooping and approached the bed. He towered over Sherlock with his arms folded across his chest. “I am sorry about your Aunt.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as a dismissal. “It’s a tragic thing to have happened.” He unhooked his arms again. “Was there any more news?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Just confirmed the bodies in the car.” 

Victor’s mouth settled in a thin line. “Is there anything I can do?” He crouched and patted the back of his hand on Sherlock’s left thigh until he shuffled across the bed, giving enough space for him to sit beside his long legs. Victor let his hand rest on Sherlock’s right thigh and kept it there. 

Sherlock shook his head again. “No,” he said, over a yawn. 

“Does this make it harder?” Victor asked, “To stay clean.” 

Sherlock peered at him down his nose. “I’m not in crisis.” He said bluntly. “I wanted you here because I missed you and I’m sad; but if you’re going to be boring you might as well just go home.” 

“I’m just trying to talk.” Victor defended. They lulled into silence for a few minutes. “Mycroft’s…interesting.” He said after a moment. 

“He’s an idiot.” Sherlock curled his lip. 

Victor shook his head, “Definitely not an idiot. And he’s clearly protective of you.” 

“He’s domineering.” Sherlock clarified. “There’s a difference.” 

“And you’re missing it!” Victor laughed. “That’s not dominance, it’s protectiveness; it’s brotherly love. He cares about you - worries about you.” He patted Sherlock’s leg where his hand lay. “You should be grateful.” 

Sherlock arched himself up and rested on his elbows. “For what? A man almost a decade my senior telling me what I can and cannot do, say and want?” 

Victor shook his head, brushing Sherlock off. “No. For a brother who cares about your wellbeing.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and flopped back down onto the bed. “He wraps me in cotton wool.” 

“You need it.” Victor said, seriously. “Sherlock your seizures are worse. You’ve had a handful since we were in Mycroft’s car and I can see you trying to fight against the jerks. You need a brother that cares about you being safe and comfortable.”

“I don't need it.” Sherlock sat up, and pushed Victor’s hand away. “Two minutes here and you're on his side? You're supposed to be here for me.”

“I am here for you.” Victor insisted. “Don't throw a strop because I said something nice about your brother. You're deflecting anyway - how about you just accept that you're more upset about your aunt than you're showing.” 

“The Holmes family doesn't do showing.” Sherlock said petulantly. 

“Set a precedent then.” Victor poked him in the bicep. 

Sherlock got to his feet. “I’m not throwing a strop.” he responded to the earlier jibe. “I already do set precedents,” He insisted. “I’m not an alcoholic, and I don’t plot Mycroft’s murder. That’s got to be worth something.” 

“If you hadn’t drugged yourself into a coma and had a stroke at twenty, perhaps it would be.” Victor said and met Sherlock’s eyes without an ounce of guilt for his honesty. He stood up and met Sherlock in the middle of the floor. He laced his fingers into Sherlock and they stood, face to face, without saying anything for a moment. He kissed him, loving the soft bend of Sherlock’s full lips against his own, and smiled when Sherlock hummed into the closeness. Victor released their hands and instead threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “Why don’t we go and help your parents and brother.” 

“Calling people to deliver bad news - no thank you.” Sherlock shook his head, and held Victor’s arms in each hand, slowly easing the man away from him.

“Then why don’t we make them tea, or something? Sherlock you should be with them right now.” Victor insisted. 

“Fine,” Sherlock arched one eyebrow. “But only because I have to go to the kitchen anyway.” 

“Oh you’re so giving.” Victor tutted, and let Sherlock guide him out of the room and down the stairs. 

They stepped into the lounge quietly, finding his parents and Mycroft rustling through photograph albums. Mycroft looked up, reading Sherlock’s face instantly, and followed as his younger brother walked off wordlessly into the kitchen, leaving Victor standing like a lemon in the lounge. 

“We came to offer you a cup of tea,” He said softly. 

Violet glanced up, removing her glasses, and offered him a soft, wet-eyed smile. “Oh aren’t you lovely. Don’t be silly, you’re our guest.” 

“Sincerely, Mrs Holmes, I want to help. I can’t exactly plan a funeral for you but I can offer some support to you. So please,” he held out his hands to her as she went to stand up. “Allow me to.” Her insisted. “I’ll get Sherlock to point out the china.” He nodded toward the door the boys had vanished into and slipped inside without another word.


	5. Chapter 5

Victor walked into the kitchen and stopped at the doorway, feeling awkward as he could tell he’d walked in on a quiet moment between Sherlock and his brother. Sherlock was leaning back against the counter, a tumbler half-filled with milk in his right hand and Mycroft was standing before him, his hands on his hips. They both looked up as the door opened and Mycroft stepped back from Sherlock by a mere inch. 

“Sherlock? Are you okay?” Victor asked, letting the door close. 

“Meds,” Sherlock said, tipping his glass. “You making tea?” 

“Am I intruding?” Victor asked, looking between them. 

“Somewhat.” Mycroft nodded. 

Sherlock glared at his brother and kicked out his right leg, booting Mycroft in the shin with the toe of his shoe. “No.” He set his glass down on the counter. “Cups are in there,” he pointed to wall-mounted press. “Um. Kettle.” 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft said in a low tone. 

“I’m fine.” Sherlock snapped around at him. “Go back.”

“Has he been behaving oddly?” Mycroft turned to Victor. “Stress can exacerbate his seizures and today has not been easy. I’m concerned.” 

“He seems okay.” Victor said. “I’ve seen him worse.” 

Mycroft eyed the young man with a face set firm in one of distaste. “I’m sure.” 

“I think he’s able to say if he’s not feeling great,” Victor defended as he approached the cupboard Sherlock had indicated. He took down five cups. “He’s a big boy.” 

“The bigger they come, the harder they fall.” Mycroft muttered. “If you’re here to support him then do as such. Don’t take your eyes off him; if he doesn’t succumb to his brain, he’ll succumb to his urges. I dare say there’s something recreational stashed away in that hovel of a bedroom.” 

“He’s clean.” Victor said firmly, with certainty. 

“Funny thing is, he’ll tell you that even when he’s waking up from a coma and the blood and urine tests tell you otherwise.” Mycroft sniped. 

“I’m getting it now,” Victor nodded his head, jaw stiff out of anger. “The reason you talk about him the way you do.” He pointed at Sherlock. “You’re right, he is an idiot, but I could think of a few better words for him. Like...prick.” He spat the final word toward Mycroft. 

Sherlock remained silent, digging his fingers into his temples as Victor and Mycroft began to bite back and forth at one another. Sherlock tried to think, but he couldn’t. He just wanted them to shut up. 

“I would reconsider your words, Mister Trevor. You’re a guest in this house. Not to mention you are not exactly here at a respectable time.” Mycroft glowered. 

“Sherlock asked me to come.” Victor pointed out. “He needed me and I am here.” 

“He needs his family.” Mycroft retorted quickly. 

“I am his family!” Victor defended loudly. “Unlike you, I don't mock him, don't call him stupid and I certainly don't make him feel bad for being… Sherlock?” 

Mycroft turned around, looking at his brother standing behind him. Sherlock blinked rhythmically, and pulled his bottom lip back and forth between his top teeth. Mycroft watched him a moment, silently counting the seconds, but when seconds became a minute he began to worry. 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft approached him. He took Sherlock by the hands and awkwardly ambled him toward the breakfast table, pushing him to sit down on a chair. “Okay, it's okay.” 

“They don't usually drag that long.” Victor said, at Sherlock's side in a second. 

Mycroft glared at him over his shoulder, “Perhaps if you hadn't added to the stress…” 

“Is that really what you're worried about?” Victor spat, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he seemed to be stuck in a long absence. “Or is it that he's actually found someone outside of you to be close to. Not so important anymore, are you Mycroft?”

Sherlock gave a cough, almost like a gag, and blinked once or twice before sighing. He looked up to where Mycroft was hovering beside him. “One of them weird ones.” He said, looking a little pale. 

“I know. I think it's about time you spoke to the neurologist about them.” Mycroft said and in an out of character move, scrubbed his hand in Sherlock's hair. “You alright?” 

“Feel a bit sick.” Sherlock admitted sluggishly. 

“Don't get up, sit there for a while.” Mycroft instructed. “Victor and I will bring the tea in for mum and dad, then I'll come back.” Sherlock nodded at him in compliance and Mycroft knew he was feeling off. 

“I can sit here if you want?” Victor offered, cupping his hand over Sherlock's. Sherlock frowned at him, blinking in quick succession. “Is he going again?” Victor looked over at Mycroft. 

“This has happened a few times recently. He’ll have a series of these, then a myoclonic cluster. Takes a few minutes.” He's explained, somewhat more calmly, as he watched Sherlock with focused eyes. 

Sure enough Sherlock's blank stare righted itself and his right side seized up, violently folding his body awkwardly in five, quick thrusts. And then he shook his head, flexed his arm as it tingled a little, and sighed marking a return to normality. He looked at Mycroft with confusion. 

“Back with us, little brother?” Mycroft asked, leaning against the counter and folding his arms over his waist. 

Sherlock blinked and nodded. “I have a headache.” 

“That was weird.” Victor said, touching Sherlock's thigh. 

“You're weird.” Sherlock made a face at him and Mycroft smiled, oddly transported back to Sherlock as a child using that same retort on him. 

“Yeah, thanks.” Victor nodded and drew back his hand. “Feeling okay now?” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “I feel sad.” He said, openly. 

“I know.” Victor looked at him sympathetically. 

Sherlock cast his eyes back to his brother. “It's going to be weird without her.” 

Mycroft unfolded his arms and nodded his agreement. “All lives end, Sherlock.”


End file.
